


Canon

by ardvari



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 23:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10627749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardvari/pseuds/ardvari
Summary: They sit outside a lot now that the snow’s gone and the grass has started to turn green again. He likes those evenings where she’ll put her feet up in his lap, balance her laptop on her thighs and write. She’s already written one book up here, has published an article challenging the laws of physics, laws she knows no longer apply because she’s been traveling through a wormhole for nearly a decade, has re-invented some of those laws herself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For all those who actually play the cello, I'm aware that this story is a little improbable. I liked the idea of it, so I ended up running with it.

**Canon**

_A painter paints pictures on canvas. But musicians paint their pictures on silence._   
~Leopold Stokowski

“Carter?” he calls out, pushing open the cabin door.

It creaks a little, scrapes along the floor a couple of inches before he closes it again. The cabin is quiet and dark, just the light above the stove in the kitchen lights his way as he puts the bags of groceries down on the counter. 

“Sam?” he calls again, checking the bedroom and the spare room they turned into an office for her to write in when they moved up here. 

He decides to put all the perishables in the fridge before he goes in search of her, stacking the yoghurt methodically instead of just shoving everything in there haphazardly and trying to catch things as they fall out the next time one of them opens the fridge. Two years of living with Carter have taught him a thing or two, and he knows how much she hates trying to catch a cup of yoghurt, missing it, and seeing it spatter all over the floor. 

When he’s done, he pushes open the door that leads to the deck and steps out into the still-warm evening. The sky’s dark already but it’s still gorgeous out here, too early in the season for the bugs to be a problem, yet warm enough to stay outside until the moon rises above the trees. 

They sit outside a lot now that the snow’s gone and the grass has started to turn green again. He likes those evenings where she’ll put her feet up in his lap, balance her laptop on her thighs and write. She’s already written one book up here, has published an article challenging the laws of physics, laws she knows no longer apply because she’s been traveling through a wormhole for nearly a decade, has re-invented some of those laws herself. 

He’s always thought that Carter could just scrap all those laws and re-invent everything they knew about physics from scratch. She’s spent years convincing him that none of the laws of physics apply to her, that she can bent those laws and use them however she sees fit. He’s seen her do it often enough. 

Smiling to himself, he scans the area around the pond, finally sees her sitting on the edge of the dock, her back against one of the posts they put in last summer to tie the boat to. She’s cradling her cello, one leg tucked underneath herself, the other one dangling in the water. The wind carries over the strains of music and he relaxes, pushes his hands into his pockets. 

He walks closer quietly because he doesn’t want to startle her. She rarely plays the cello when he’s around, telling him that she’s only started to learn a while ago and it probably still sounds horrible. It doesn’t, it sounds dark and mysterious, the music full of longing, and it’s not surprising how fast she’s learned to play, this is Sam Carter after all.

Without a sound he lowers himself down to the ground on the edge of the dock, lets his hand stroke along the short, spiky grass. He’s fairly sure she knows he’s here, seven years of fighting together have made them both hyperaware of where the other one is, how close the other one is, if the other one’s okay. And yet she’s still playing, her head resting against the cello’s neck, her eyes closed. The wind’s playing with a strand of her hair as her fingers move along the fingerboard, the bow stroking slow, sweet music out of the huge instrument. 

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until, with a final, slow stroke, she lifts the bow, opens her eyes, and looks at him. He exhales, struck by how gorgeous she looks in the dim light, struck by how much that look in her eyes still tears at his heartstrings after all these years. 

They look at each other across the dock for a while, blue eyes locked on dark ones, unwavering. There’s so much love in her eyes that he still wonders sometimes how someone like her could possible fall for someone like him, put up with someone like him, love someone like him despite knowing all of his scars, his issues, his inherent darkness. 

“C’mere,” she says finally, sitting up a bit straighter. 

She lifts the cello and he crawls in between the instrument and her, not willing to lean back against her until her hand on his shoulder forces him to. Somehow she manages to settle the cello in his lap, her leg stretched out next to him, her foot against the cello’s base, toes hooked around the tail pin. Usually it’s her who settles in his lap, but as strange as this reversal feels, it’s right somehow. She rests her chin on his shoulder, kisses his neck gently and then starts to play again. 

It’s like being surrounded by music all of a sudden, feeling her moving against him, feeling the cello vibrating a little, and hearing the music floating around them both. He closes his eyes, knows that hers are closed too, and just listens for a while. 

He’d expected lots of things when she’d told him that she was ready to retire, had expected both the best and the worst when they’d decided to move up here, but he’d never expected this. This is better than anything his imagination had ever been able to come up with when it came to Carter. This is perfect.

He listens to the last few strains of music, opens his eyes in time to see her lift the bow again. She buries her nose against his neck, her lips gracing his skin lightly. 

“Liked it?” she asks, letting her fingers trail along his side lightly. 

The cello’s resting against his shoulder and he picks at the strings with his fingers, coaxing a few disengaged notes out of the instrument.

“Loved it,” he says softly. “Love _you_.”


End file.
